


My Buddy, My Pal

by Bettybot (Lizbettywrites)



Series: The Ways They Said "I Love You" [14]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2018-12-26 06:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12053175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizbettywrites/pseuds/Bettybot
Summary: Friendship takes work. Sometimes we miss signals.





	1. Over a beer bottle

With the last patrons staggering off down the hall, the process of cleaning up began. Skids gathered glasses and stacked them in the sink while Swerve wiped down the counter and tables.

“I appreciate you hanging around to help,” Swerve called across the bar. “It’s, uh, it’s difficult to get everything done on my own and still have time to relax after.”

“No problem,” Skids replied, smiling over at the bartender. “I like helping.”

Swerve pointed to a glowing puddle of fuel. “Then you’ll like this! Grab the mop, would you? Jackpot purged earlier.”

“Serves him right, thinking he could outdrink Mainframe.”

“Too bad it’s you who’s cleaning up the consequences.”

“Where in the contract does it name me the designated spewed engex mopper-upper?”

Swerve tossed the mop at him. “I’ll pay you in free drinks.”

“Fair enough. If I’ve still got an appetite after.”

He did, as it turned out. They took over one of the tables with a pair of glasses and a bottle of Circuit Fry—one of Swerve’s experimental cocktails. It proved a bit stronger than expected, and though Skids stopped after two servings, Swerve giggled his way through the rest and was left clinging to Skid’s arm, rambling in a garbled fashion about some escapade or other on Kimia.

In a moment of sudden lucidity, the minibot cocked his head to the side and asked, “We’re friends, right?”

Skids shifted in his seat. “I’d say so.”

His answer brought a wide smile to Swerve’s face. “Good…” He drunkenly patted Skids’ arm, mumbled something that sounded like, “your goo fenders,” and tipped forward onto the table.

“Yeah, I think you’ve had enough.” Skids picked up the bottle and eyed its handwritten label. Wow. Were those compounds even legal? “And this stuff is officially restricted to single shots.”


	2. Before we jump

It was Skids who solidified it, really, in a roundabout sort of way. He found time for Swerve near the end of the night, gave the nicest (unintentional) goodbye speech a mech could ask for.

“Take note, Swerve: everyone's happy.” _Yes, yes they are._ “We saved Thunderclash, we made some cool new friends,” _replacement cast members,_ “and Cyberutopia is back in our sights. And best of all, everyone's _dancing_.”

_It's the perfect setting for a finale._

“And it's all thanks to you! Your bar, your booze, your idea to have a—what did you call it?”

_A going-away party? Is it bad that I finally feel special to be the only one to have this before I go?_

“An indie disco?”

Swerve’s laugh came out wrong, too short. “Heh. I guess my work here is done.”

_Drift left, Ratchet left, there's a new Rewind, Nautica and Skids are besties, Blue mixes a mean petrolex cocktail—_

His frame tingled. Swerve glanced at the glass in his hands, did a double take at his hands themselves. They were suspiciously see-through.

“Oh boy.” He looked back up at Skids.

_Right, last words, say thanks, let him know you appreciate he's stuck around as long as he has—_

Dark, then light. Something stretched—and snapped.

_“If he was really your friend,” Sheldon is saying as Jerry opens his eyes, “he’d know you weren’t really there.”_

_Ted scoffs. “He’s observant. Ex-OPs don’t miss things like that. More likely he just doesn’t care.”_

_“Can’t blame him for that.”_

_Jerry bounces to his feet and links arms with his new buddies. “Quit moping, guys! Don’t you see what this means?” He gestured to the three of them._

_”We’ll never be alone.”_


	3. Over your shoulder

Swerve entered his bar at a brisk trot and kept up the exuberant attitude impressively long for a mech fresh from surgery. That said, Skids could see him losing steam an hour in. It only took a nod to Bluestreak and a soft suggestion to the flagging minibot to get Swerve from behind the counter and the other bartender in his place.

The atmosphere between them felt tight during the walk to Room 43, stretched and straining but, perhaps unfortunately, nowhere near snapping. The mess inside the hab had been cleaned up, but Skids had to suppress a cringe as they entered.

It was all too easy to picture his friend catatonic on that berth rather than sitting up on it, whole and healthy.

“Sure you don't want me to stay?” he queried.

Swerve’s grin faded a little. “Yeah. I guess right now it’d—it’d feel like charity. You know?”

“Yeah.” Skids headed for the hall, but something made him pause in the doorway and glance back. “Cyclonus already said it, but you know you're cared for, right? We care about you.” _I care about you. Even though I've been rubbish at acting like it._

“Sure thing. Thanks, Skids. You're a pal.” Swerve yawned—one of the first mannerisms any Cyb picked up from humans, for some reason—and lay back. His visor went dark before his cowl hit the berth.

Skids smiled, but his expression felt strained. “I won't screw up on you again.”


End file.
